


For the Birds

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ducks, London, M/M, Saint James's Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-24
Updated: 2007-09-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something has to change, and only those of the avian persuasion know what it is. Humanity, being clueless, will take you the long way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Birds

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in September of 2007.

Most birds, or any bird worth its seed, will tell you that humans are remarkably silly creatures. They don't build nests, for starters, and they let their chicks hang about for far too long. The other day, a heron remarked to his neighbor, a stork, that young ones learn so much faster if you just let them get on with their lives.

God happened to be listening, as God usually is, and nodded knowingly. It had been a tiring decade-and-a-year, and He was quite ready for a holiday. Death, who seemed a bit fed-up at the moment, was moping about and making things generally dark, so He asked the poor bloke if he fancied a jaunt to Majorca.

Death said: SURE, I'M SICK OF ENGLAND ANYWAY.

Meanwhile, the ducks of St. James's Park mourned the loss of the tall, hooded figure's inimitable bread stock (even their wisest elders had been unable to determine its origin), and a lone nightingale sang away the afternoon in Berkeley Square.

The jackdaws thought her off-pitch, but were too polite to say so.

The important bit was that the humans, or human-shaped things, at the corner table stayed until evening, and, when the band struck up, they danced. Badly.

It would get back to the heron that human-shaped things weren't much brighter than humans, that this case was a sad one, and that some genuine busybodies had better take care of it unless they wanted their habitat to become a genuinely gloomy place.

The ducks soon forgot the tall, hooded figure, and turned their task to more familiar bread. Being somewhat territorially restricted, they didn't feel any particular shame in asking a bit of help. Unlike humans, they were nothing if not practical.

* * * *

"This is depressing," said Crowley, and turned his glass upside-down. Fascinated, he watched a slow, red stain seep into the white tablecloth. He was a sober sort of drunk this evening, and didn't like it. He hoped Aziraphale had better wine at the bookshop.

Aziraphale reached across the table, knocking over the salt, and righted the glass.

"Well, _I_ think things have gone very nicely. A what do you call it, best case scenario?"

For a moment, Crowley couldn't respond for shock that Aziraphale had got a figure of speech right on the first go. He picked up his cloth napkin and dropped it on his plate.

"Yeah," he said, leaning forward to stare into the candlelight, "but something's off."

Aziraphale reached over, this time taking out the pepper, and patted Crowley's hand.

"You always think something is off. I suppose not _everything_ has changed."

"But everything _has_ changed," insisted Crowley, stubbornly.

"No, it hasn't," said Aziraphale, finishing off his wine. "We had a lovely lunch at the Ritz, and there was _good_ music, and now we're having a lovely late dinner, and—"

"And they're closing," Crowley cut in, idly holding out his hand. "The bill, please."

The waiter had impeccable timing. Aziraphale bit his lip as Crowley unfolded the slip from the tray and glanced over it. They'd once done worse damage at a café in Paris, and Crowley hadn't been happy about footing the expenses. This time, it wasn't his turn. He whistled and placed the paper back on the tray, passing it to Aziraphale.

"Really, my dear. I think we ought to go splits. It's only fair that—"

"That things change," said Crowley, feeling too moody to argue. He slipped his card onto the tray beside Aziraphale's neat stack of notes and had done with it. "Half on there, take the rest from the cash, keep the change," he said, rubbing his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on. He'd had a lot of those in the past seven days, and he wasn't liking the trend. Only humans were supposed to get headaches. 

Or feel lonely, or scared.

He was most irritated about that last one, especially because he had survived Hell, high water, and the Apocalypse to boot—and _still_ couldn't kick it.

"Is everything all right?" Aziraphale asked, touching his hand again. It was amazing that, despite the angel's talent for irritation, he always managed to tolerate the touch.

"Yeah," said Crowley, standing up so that his hand slipped out of reach. He stretched, guiltily covering his intention. "Knackered, though. Have you got better wine?"

"I have wine, but I'm not sure that it's better," said Aziraphale, cautiously, rising. "And I'm not sure you ought to be drinking it. I'm not carrying you home."

"Fine, that's what your sofa is for."

"No, my sofa is for reading on, and I have every intention of reading tonight."

"Fine, then that wreck you call a bed."

Aziraphale was getting testy, and that was making Crowley feel better.

"Crowley, you have your _own_ bed."

"But I have no wine," Crowley pressed on. "Just hard liquor, and that won't mix."

"You can...alter it."

"Vodka makes a terrible base for Chablis."

Aziraphale sighed, taking the tray from the waiter, who had returned. It was empty except for Crowley's card. He handed the tray to Crowley, shrugging.

"If you pass out, dear boy, I'm leaving you on the floor."

 _At least it's your floor_ , Crowley wanted to say, but he took the card and followed the angel back inside, through the dining room, and out the front doors of the Ritz.

There was a bird caught inside, he thought later, one flapping around the lights on the high, elegant ceiling. He started to tell this to Aziraphale, and then began to snore.

* * *

Aziraphale had put up with a lot of hardships in his almost six thousand years. He had put up with losing a flaming sword, constantly being tempted by the Adversary, and constantly giving in. He had put up with foolish kings and frightening people, and he had also put up with the Arrangement and all its attendant worries.

A passed-out Crowley had, frequently, been one such worry, and for all he was of the mind that something had to change, it looked as if this particular feature would not. In the end, he'd taken pity—he chalked it up to never having been able to resist anyway—and put Crowley on the dusty old mattress. Maybe he'd wake up and find himself allergic, and it would be good for him. Hardships, at least minor ones, usually were.

Some thumping about above Aziraphale's head told him that Crowley was finally awake. He set down the edition he'd been working his way through before all that unpleasant Apocalypse business had started and made his way up the crooked stairs.

Crowley was standing in front of the rickety bedroom window, trying to force it open.

"It sticks," said Aziraphale, apologetically, coming up behind him. "I haven't opened it in years. Here," he said, nudging Crowley out of the way. One sharp thump with the heel of his hand, and, at the next push, it slid upward in a puff of dust.

Crowley sneezed.

"Thanks, angel. How many angry dust mites d'you think you just stirred up?"

"Come downstairs," said Aziraphale, taking hold of Crowley's arm. He'd stolen a glance at the demon mostly to see what kind of condition he was in, and it was the same condition he'd been in at the Park and at the Ritz yesterday, except his jacket was off and his hair was mussed, and his glasses were missing. He looked vulnerable, and if he knew anything about Crowley, it was that Crowley hated looking vulnerable.

"I can walk," said Crowley, tugging his arm away when they came to the stairs.

"That's fine," Aziraphale replied, more to cover his own vague sense of hurt than to reassure Crowley. He'd done his best the night before, really. It was all one could do. He had no more idea than Crowley had what was going on, and every time he reached for the conversation they'd had yesterday morning in St. James's, it grew muddled.

He sat Crowley down at the table, but not before moving his book to safety. He'd put out quite a lot for it, and the fact that he'd spent nearly twice as much for his half of the bill last night hadn't done his temper any good. Were they still going be _paid_?

"I'll make us some tea," said Aziraphale, and went into the kitchenette.

"Is that your solution to everything?" Crowley called after him, evidently not hung-over enough not to engage in his usual game of thinking too much. "Hot beverages?"

"It's the human solution to everything," muttered Aziraphale, under his breath, and ignored Crowley's amendment of "the _English_ solution to everything, have you finally lost your head, too?" Aziraphale waited for the kettle to steam.

When he brought out the cups of tea—milk in both, even if Crowley might protest he'd put too much, and ask where the sugar was—Crowley was studying the piece of scrap paper on the table, lips pursed against the broken point of Aziraphale's pencil.

"You must have got that down in a hurry," he said, looking up when Aziraphale set down Crowley's cup. He indicated the number scribbled on the paper, offering Aziraphale a tired smile. "How long'd it take you to work that out, anyway? I read your notes in the book, that must've taken—"

Aziraphale snatched the paper off the table, crumpled it, and threw it in the bin.

"Drink your tea, please," he said, and sat down across from Crowley.

The demon sipped his tea in silence for a few seconds, then said, "There was a bird—"

"I've had enough of your bird stories," Aziraphale said, wearily, into his teacup.

"Sorry," said Crowley, quietly, and drank his tea.

* * *

Aziraphale had said that the best course of action would be to take a couple days just for themselves. To de-stress, he'd said. Crowley wondered where Aziraphale was learning his figures of speech these days; he couldn't very well let the angel get ahead of the game. At least when Aziraphale was around, he didn't have to worry about looking stupid. That, too, seemed intent upon changing.

Crowley wasn't sure he liked change.

Spending two days entirely alone was a bigger change than angels could grasp. You got _bored_ , just being a demon without anybody to tempt or bother or hang on. It was one of those things that wasn't in the manual; it was built-in, just like angels didn't come with papers telling you they had too high a tolerance for dust and a fondness for bad wallpaper. You just learned things as you went along, and you did all right.

At the moment, Crowley was not doing all right. He was somewhere _south_ of all right. In fact, he was sure he'd never been so off-course from all right in his existence.

His houseplants were behaving themselves. Beautifully. He'd come home to not only a restored Bentley, but also an entire blessed greenhouse where his plant room had been. Or, rather, his plant room had turned into a miniature greenhouse, complete with a sunroof. He wasn't sure what the landlord would have to say about this, but then, the landlord probably wasn't going to notice and probably never would. 

Adam Young was clever.

On flipping through the channels on his television, Crowley discovered that he now had at least three times as many channels as before, and that was a feat, because he'd already subscribed to the most ridiculous cable package that he'd been able to find.

Still, Crowley was bored, and it was the worst kind of boredom he had ever experienced. It was boredom of a deep, existential, and fatal sort. _Too much messin' people about_. What was he supposed to do if he couldn't mess people about? He couldn't mess Aziraphale about, because Aziraphale had said he needed _space_. 

Crowley turned off the television, rolled over, and stared at his perfect ceiling.

He might be right about it being just a breathing space, of course. That would almost be better than the alternative, wouldn't it, better than an uncertain eternity of eking out an uncertain existence upon a planet that was now under the governance of a human with more power than any human had ever been intended to have?

Except the human in charge of things seemed to _like_ them, which was about as good as having the universe on your side, and Crowley _had_ always had the sneaking suspicion the universe couldn't help liking him. And if it liked him, well, it would have no choice but to like his friends, and that meant Aziraphale.

Crowley covered his eyes, wishing for another headache. 

At least then he wouldn't have to _think_.

* * *

It was turning out to be a nice, quiet couple of days, with the exception of the racket outside the upstairs window. Aziraphale hadn't just disturbed a bunch of dust mites. He'd jarred loose a nest that had been commandeered by a crotchety old pigeon, and the bird had decided to start pecking away the remnants of the debris so that it could at least settle into the spot where the nest had been and be crotchety in peace.

Surprisingly, Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to feel sympathetic. He brought a rag and a basin of warm water upstairs, sprayed the entire windowsill with disinfectant, and cleaned the window from top to bottom. He ended up with badly streaked glass, but at least it made him feel better. He opened the window, hoping to be able to reach the outside frame for cleaning, but all he got was a thorough pecking and a near brush with falling to the street below. His neighbors probably wondered enough already.

Unsurprisingly, the pigeon wasn't going to forgive him.

It warbled, which pigeons do _not_ do well, at odd hours, and even invited over a few of its old, gentlemanly friends from the neighborhood square, only upon discovering how little space there was under the eaves, they became less gentlemanly.

Aziraphale fished a moldering pair of winter earmuffs—Crowley had insulted them on several occasions, and then he'd stopped wearing them—out of his closet and popped them on, in hopes of blocking out the racket, but they did as much good as they'd ever done. Which, suffice to say, was none at all. He tossed them in the bin and tried to get on with reading. He made a mental note to clean the closet; he might as well do.

The problem had always been finding the right balance between cleaning and not cleaning. He was fastidious by nature and didn't like to leave things cluttered, but a certain level of mustiness and disarray seemed to discourage the average customer. Most people didn't _only_ want books. They also wanted a warm, cozy nook with soft lighting and well varnished wood paneling and lots of comfortable chairs. And, judging by the look of things these days, a coffee shop and magazine racks.

Crowley had once suggested that he install magazine racks, and maybe put a coffee pot next to the door, but Aziraphale had refused. The men in dark suits with wads of money might have deserved sending-away, but they _were_ right about the place being a fire hazard, and having had it recently proved was an uncomfortable matter.

 _Bless_ that Young boy, even if he was—had been—the Antichrist.

Aziraphale glanced up from his book and sighed. The whole situation would sort itself out, wouldn't it? He had to believe it would: _He_ wouldn't have permitted all this happening if there wasn't something to it. Ineffability had a way of looking out for you if you let it. The only thing Aziraphale knew for certain was that he had it on his side.

Well, and on Crowley's. They _were_ all God's creatures, after all.

Upstairs, the pigeon started warbling again.

Aziraphale fetched the earmuffs out of the bin and miracled them back to health. He wished, fleetingly, for the sound of Crowley's voice. It could drown out anything.

One of the pigeon's companions began to warble counterpoint.

* * *

It wasn't every day that Aziraphale showed up on Crowley's doorstep, but that was just as well. In this instance, however, it was actually _welcome_. The trouble was, it had been three days, not two, and Crowley was feeling especially bitter. None of his plants had begun to wilt, and they'd canceled the _Honeymooners_ marathon on one of his favorite new stations. He slouched down the stairs and opened the door, glaring.

"Hello, dear boy," said Aziraphale, brightly. He looked a bit more strained than usual.

"You've got earmuffs on," said Crowley, too shocked to remember whatever sarcasm he'd planned. "Fuzzy ones," he continued, mouth hanging open. "With tartan lining."

"Nobody can _see_ the lining," objected Aziraphale, taking them off. "It's windy."

"Yeah, it's September now," said Crowley, recovering himself. "Who'd have thought?"

"Do you treat all your callers like this?'

Crowley glanced past Aziraphale into the street. 

"What callers?"

"Oh, that's very funny," said Aziraphale, clearly not on top of his figures of speech today. Crowley took a little comfort in that and let him push his way inside. He closed the door behind Aziraphale and bit his tongue on, _Here, I'll get your coat_.

"I thought you were going to slam it in my face," confessed Aziraphale, hanging his coat on the empty rack. "Usually, you don't answer."

Crowley stared at him for a few seconds.

"Usually, I—what?"

"I think you've answered the door all of a dozen times in, well, centuries," said Aziraphale, rummaging something out of his coat pocket. It was, as Crowley could tell by peering through the fabric, a book. "Either you're not often home—which, really, I am not hard pressed to believe, considering the amount of time you spend in my shop—or you have the worst hearing known to demon-kind. Let's go upstairs, shall we?"

Crowley wondered why he'd never noticed that Aziraphale was a master at inviting himself into _anywhere_. That probably explained how the angel had got by in the times they hadn't seen much of each other, though. Humans were, after all, infinitely more open to angelic suggestion than other occult beings were. Except Crowley had always had the sneaking suspicion he was an exception to the rule, and loathed it.

Once they'd got upstairs, Aziraphale went straight to the kitchen and made tea. Crowley was both annoyed and grateful: he usually _wanted_ a cup of tea when he was in this kind of mood, but laziness prevented him from making it himself. He'd been able to write off hanging about Aziraphale's shop as a tactic of practicality. As long as he was there, he'd never have to make his own tea. 

And it had worked for a very long time.

"Sugar?" Aziraphale called. He even _sounded_ tired.

"Two," said Crowley, changing the channel. "Sugarbowl's in the cupboard."

"I know that."

"Sorry."

Aziraphale brought in a whole tray, which was only surprising in that Crowley couldn't remember whether he owned trays or not. It reminded him of why he'd bothered to get a stylish glass coffee table in the first place, and it got the tray off their laps so they could sit back and enjoy their tea. The television had landed on static, but that seemed fine by Aziraphale, who probably thought it was some kind of new program.

"First off, I shouldn't have been sharp with you," began Aziraphale, hesitantly.

"If you're saying you didn't really need space, I already knew that."

"Sorry."

Crowley sighed. "Look, it's all right. What were you saying?"

"You kept trying to tell me about a bird," Aziraphale muttered into a sip of his tea. "Well, I've invited myself over, and I'm afraid I want to talk about birds."

"Oh," said Crowley, wrapping his hands around his cup. "That's all right."

Aziraphale sighed, almost as if exasperated, then continued, "I seem to have a problem. There was one living above the window, and I've quite destroyed its home."

"So? Make it a new one."

"Why would I do that? I don't want it there. It's a nuisance."

"You're not very good with birds," Crowley said, thoughtfully. "I bet it knows that. You and that dove, after all. Bad, bad business. Good thing I was there."

"You were at the bloody window."

"Yeah," said Crowley, "but I didn't knock down its house."

"You didn't repair it, either," Aziraphale said, almost accusingly.

"I didn't know it lived up there! It's way past nesting season."

"It wasn't a nest, it was…well, all right, it was a nest, but it was an _old_ nest. A bachelor pigeon had taken up residence, see?"

"There's no such thing as a bachelor pigeon. There are messenger pigeons, and—"

"I mean the pigeon's a bachelor," said Aziraphale, impatiently.

"Right," said Crowley, deciding not to press the issue. "Must've lost his mate, then."

"I thought it was swans that mated for life."

"Nope, that's mate out of water," Crowley said, trying not to laugh. Unlike swans, pigeons weren't waterfowl, and the joke worked quite nicely. He'd never forget Aziraphale's inebriated attempt to attach the attribute to dolphins.

"Right," said Aziraphale, instantly chagrined. It seemed he'd never forget, either.

"So, what's the problem? You ruined its house. It'll go find another one. The end."

"Actually, it seems to have liked its old one. Quite a lot."

"Ah. Vindictive bird," Crowley concluded, finishing off his tea.

"Highly," agreed Aziraphale. He sipped his tea glumly, staring out the window. "You're better with birds. I thought you might get rid of it. Encourage it to move on."

"You make me sound like one of those guys on television. You know, with ghosts and all that. Get them to say goodbye to the grandkids and stop haunting the attic."

Aziraphale gave him an odd look.

"Er, I've got lots of new channels," Crowley explained, picking up the remote control.

Half an hour later, after they'd located a gourmet-cooking program, Aziraphale was still looking. It wasn't solving anybody's bird problems, but it was an engaging recipe.

While Aziraphale wasn't paying attention, Crowley collected the tray and made more tea. Something small and dull-colored flapped at the kitchen window.

By the time Crowley looked up, it had gone.

* * *

Aziraphale glanced up and down the street. There were a few cars parked along the curb, one of them being, of course, the Bentley. This was not unusual. Still, cars in the street meant the possibility of people in the street, and he was quite certain that he was about to make a fool of himself and that Crowley was going to enjoy it.

The upstairs window creaked open after a lot of jostling. It was a good job the pigeon wasn't home at the moment, because Crowley would've gotten a pecking.

"Hi," said Crowley, waving out the window. "Is he up there?"

Aziraphale squinted into the eaves just to make sure.

"No," he said, reluctantly. "He's not. I think you would have known."

"Well, he'll be back soon, right?" asked Crowley, leaning out the window. 

"I don't know," admitted Aziraphale. They'd watched television all night at Crowley's flat, and it was the first time in a long while that Aziraphale had known Crowley to choose not to sleep. Then again, with all the tea in his system, little wonder.

Crowley made an irritated face.

"I'm not going to hang out your second story window all day waiting for some pigeon just so I can tell him to go away, I hope you know that. I thought he'd be _here_."

"Well, he usually _is_ ," said Aziraphale, helplessly. "In fact, he's usually got two or three friends about. They're fond of singing. It's not pleasant."

Crowley rested his elbows on the windowsill, chin in hands.

"Very few birds are actually pleasant to listen to. Most of them just pass as background noise, you know? I always wondered why people wax so poetic on birds. Ducks, now, ducks are realistic. Ducks are noisy. Annoying."

"And rather cute," Aziraphale put in.

"Yeah," agreed Crowley, absently, brushing something off his sleeve.

"I cleaned up there," said Aziraphale, hoping Crowley had noticed.

"You're mad," said Crowley, peering up into the eaves. "I see where the nest was, though. Still some twigs. And feathers. Lots of—"

"Yes, yes, I know," sighed Aziraphale, and sat down on the curb. Things weren't looking up, unless you counted the fact that he was, literally, looking up at Crowley.

And, for better or worse, Crowley was looking back down at him, half smiling.

"By the way, what was it?" Aziraphale asked, fighting the urge to fidget.

"What was what?" Crowley's smile melted into confusion.

"You said something about a bird. Er, a different bird, I can only guess."

"It was just a bird stuck in the Ritz. I was drunk. I hope somebody let it out."

"A bird could get on quite well in the Ritz," said Aziraphale, musing.

"Yeah, but it wasn't singing," said Crowley, somewhat wistfully.

 _Right_ , thought Aziraphale, and stared at the pavement.

* * *

They'd waited for more than two hours, but the pigeon hadn't shown.

It was one of the more embarrassing things he'd ever done, but as embarrassing as it had been for him, it had probably been twice as bad for Aziraphale, seeing as a few of his neighbors had wandered by and asked what was going on. The guy who owned the adult bookshop next door had seemed sympathetic, and even boring for a man who owned that kind of shop. Aziraphale had been the one to call the venture off.

"It's ridiculous," Aziraphale said, shifting on the mattress. He'd come upstairs before Crowley could go down to meet him. They'd ended up sitting down on the mattress and breaking out a bottle of Cognac from Aziraphale's wardrobe. 

"Utterly ridiculous, he hiccoughed. "I hope it's gone for good."

"'S a he," Crowley reminded him, swilling the contents of his chipped glass.

"He, it, whatever," said Aziraphale, topping off his own a little unsteadily. "Bugger."

"I can get it," said Crowley, pointlessly. The glass was already full.

"But, see," said Aziraphale, his eyes failing to focus properly on Crowley's, "if you leave, he'll come back. Clever devils, birds."

"Birds aren't devils," said Crowley, setting down his glass. "Not that I know of."

"Cats, now," said Aziraphale, darkly. "Full of 'em."

Crowley blinked, confused. His head was beginning to feel fuzzy.

"Full of what?"

"Devils."

"No, that was swine, and they offed themselves."

"Terrible way to go," said Aziraphale, sadly. He slumped a little, leaning on Crowley's shoulder. Instinctively, Crowley leaned back. It was probably the Cognac.

"Yeah," said Crowley. "For the pigs, anyway."

"Mm," agreed Aziraphale, noncommittally. "Devils 'n water."

"A lot of them wish, anyway."

"No, s'true. Dominion upon the face of the waters an' that."

"Pardon? What's the reference?"

"Don't remember," sighed Aziraphale, and tried reaching for his glass. His aim was off, and his hand brushed the bottle instead. Crowley took it out of his reach.

"Come on," he said, and got up. He reached down and, with a heave, hauled Aziraphale to his feet. The angel swayed, tipsily, and swayed in Crowley's direction. Crowley steadied him, wondering if he ought to just leave Aziraphale for the evening.

"Where're we going?"

"Back to my place," said Crowley, mentally backpedaling. It was what he had _wanted_ to say, but not what he had _meant_ to say. "We can cut through the park if you like."

"'S not on the way."

"It's close enough," said Crowley, and nudged Aziraphale. "Sober up, would you?"

"Can't," muttered Aziraphale, but he winced a few seconds later. "I hate that."

"Everybody does," Crowley reassured him, ushering him toward the stairs. "Come on."

It wasn't yet dark, so St. James's wasn't what you'd call deserted. Autumn was as popular as spring when it came to people tossing out blankets and having picnics—or using picnics as an excuse for other activities—but you didn't usually have trouble getting your hands on a bench. Especially not a bench near the water.

"Shoo," said Aziraphale, looking an inquisitive white duck in the eyes. "I haven't brought anything. I feel guilty, I'll have you know."

"He's been uncharitable," Crowley explained, rummaging in his pockets. He came up with a stale, half-eaten bar of chocolate, which wasn't ideal, but would suffice. He grunted and broke off a bit, tossing it to the white duck's darker companion. "He had me spend all day hanging out a window in hopes that I might evict a cousin of yours."

The white duck tilted its head, uncomprehending. Ducks were dim creatures, really. Crowley ignored Aziraphale's indignant _hmph_ and held out another bit of chocolate. The white duck approached hesitantly, then snatched it from his fingers.

"They trust you," muttered Aziraphale. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Animals remember," said Crowley. "They mightn't be what you'd call traditionally intelligent, but I really think there's something to all that instincts nonsense."

"Well, what have these ducks got to remember about _you_?"

"I feed them."

"I feed them, too."

"I brought a dove back to life."

"Ducks don't flock with doves."

"No, but birds of a feather."

Aziraphale sighed, which meant he was tired of arguing. Crowley nodded, satisfied, and splintered the remaining chocolate into three uneven pieces. He threw them long, one by one, down to the edge of the water. A couple of swans glided over, pecking up the pieces greedily. The ducks slowed halfway to the water's edge, complaining softly.

"You could have given it to them, you know," said Aziraphale.

"And I say I've already given them some," said Crowley. He stood up, brushing off his hands. "Come on, your cooking program's going to start."

Reluctantly, Aziraphale smiled.

"Wouldn't miss it, my dear," he said, and took Crowley's hand.

Through the dusk, something small and dark swooped past. It lit in a nearby tree, but Crowley couldn't discern it. If it was a bird, it remained ominously silent.

"Bats," said Aziraphale, and urged them along at a faster pace.

Not letting himself think, Crowley put an arm around the angel.

* * *

"What do you mean you haven't got the keys?" said Aziraphale, staring blankly at Crowley's front door. At the moment, his mind was quietly in the process of telling him he ought to panic. Crowley's arm hadn't budged until they reached his front walk, and even then, it had done so very reluctantly. Crowley hadn't looked away from him, either, when he'd stammered out, _Do you have your keys?_ He'd even quite calmly explained that he didn't, which brought them up to the present moment.

"Don't need them," said Crowley, and waved the door open. "After you."

Aziraphale's mind was also in the process of not-so-quietly kicking itself.

Inside Crowley's flat was warm, a sharp contrast to outside. It really _had_ got around to being September sometime in the past week, and it had also decided to be quite a chilly one. Aziraphale took off his coat in a hurry, because a stolen glance at Crowley had told him the demon had been about to offer. He heard Crowley sigh.

"Here," said Crowley, handing over his coat. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all," said Aziraphale, with an odd sense of ceremony, and hung Crowley's coat beside his own. The coat rack had a perplexed, imbalanced look about it.

"It's getting to be cocoa weather," Crowley said, unexpectedly, rubbing his hands together. "You didn't happen to bring the Cognac, did you?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale, guiltily summoning the bottle to Crowley's kitchen counter. When he got there, it was waiting for him. Behind Aziraphale, Crowley hovered almost nervously. He was probably about to ask if there was anything he could do.

"Is there anything—"

"No," Aziraphale reassured him, a bit too firmly. He turned around, catching Crowley's hand, which was hovering inconveniently in the air between them. "Go sit down."

Crowley stared at him for a second, crestfallen, and nodded.

Aziraphale let go of his hand, a gesture like the lightest brush of feathers, and felt a shiver rush down his spine. Of all the things the universe, or ineffability, or whatever-it-was could want to change, this was the strangest. It might even be exactly right.

 _No_ , Aziraphale corrected himself, steadying his hands as he filled the kettle with water. _Of all the things_ He _could want to change_. And it _was_ right, or he hoped it was right. If it wasn't, he was sure he'd never look Crowley in the eyes again. Which was a sudden, startling prospect if he gave it literal consideration.

With the exception of a few gaps here and there, he couldn't remember a time Crowley _hadn't_ been there looking right back at him. Whether it had been across a battlefield or across table, down from a tree or down from a second-story window.

Aziraphale couldn't make any excuses, and he couldn't blame the Arrangement, either.

His hands weren't any steadier than when he'd started out, but Aziraphale somehow managed to produce two cups of steaming cocoa that looked as if they'd turned out neither too weak, nor too strong. He slipped his fingers through the handles, one cup in each hand. He'd leave out the Cognac. If he was to do this at all, he'd do it sober.

Crowley was absorbed in the cooking program, which had just started, but not so absorbed that he didn't look up and murmur thanks when Aziraphale set one of the cups of cocoa in front of him. Cautiously, Aziraphale sat down beside him on the sofa and took a tentative sip from his own cup. He sucked in his breath.

"It's a bit on the hot side," he said, apologetically, then thought better of it.

Crowley just shrugged, holding his cup in both hands, unbothered.

Aziraphale stared guiltily into his cup. He knew he should be pretending to pay attention to the cooking program, but there didn't seem to be any use even in that. His stomach was churning—butterflies—and the single sip of cocoa sat ill with him.

"I'm going to let it cool a bit," he said, lamely, and sat his cup on the coffee table.

Crowley glanced at him.

"I'm not offended, angel."

"I didn't say you were."

"You pick odd times to be sensitive."

Aziraphale stared at him, uncertain of what to say. Crowley wasn't paying any attention to the television now, and it occurred to Aziraphale that he'd removed the sunglasses sometime during his stay in the kitchen. He didn't blink, but then, that wasn't any guarantee. It was, after all, Crowley.

"No, it's you," said Aziraphale, because that would have to suffice.

Crowley frowned at him, casting a worried glance down at his steaming cup. 

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"My dear, it's _really_ too hot," said Aziraphale, and carefully pried the cup out of his hand. He set it beside his own, a soft, faintly dampened _plink_ on the glass.

"Fine, if it's going to keep you from getting worked up, then…" Crowley trailed off, meeting Aziraphale's gaze. His expression had changed, subtly, and there was something vaguely frightened peering out from behind the odd brightness of his eyes. 

"If this is about something you should've said days ago," he said, "I'm listening."

"It really is," Aziraphale told him, and, feeling his heart lurch into painful motion, trailed one finger from the curve of Crowley's jaw down to his chin. "It's you. You're still here. I shouldn't ask for more than that. It's simple, and whatever you were saying, it _was_ terribly important. I just wish I could remember what you were saying. Even if _some_ things have changed, well, _everything_ can't change. You haven't."

Under Aziraphale's touch, Crowley had gone very, very still. It was the stillness of a coiled snake, and Aziraphale, if he'd had any sense, would have feared it.

"I hate you for this," Crowley whispered. "I really, _really_ hate—"

"You're blaming the wrong person," said Aziraphale, gently, and leaned forward to press a kiss that was really too quick to be a kiss against Crowley's lips. "I hate Him, too. We were comfortable. We could have got on just fine without things changing."

"But they're changed," said Crowley, blinking, as if he'd just realized what Aziraphale had done. He ran his tongue briefly over his lips. It was pink and not at all pointed, at least not in that split second. "They're really changed. Very. I cannot tell you how changed they are. In other words, things are different now, and I think maybe—"

"No," said Aziraphale, quickly, and kissed him again. "Don't— _ummm_ —think."

"No," Crowley agreed, gasping the word quickly between kisses. "Not at— _ah_ —all."

Aziraphale should have found this funny. He should have found the fact that it was obvious that neither of them had ever kissed anybody was the funniest thing he'd ever heard of, but, finding himself dead in the middle of kissing somebody who was _Crowley_ , it was clearly the most serious thing in the world.

"Yes," Crowley was saying, breath high and shallow. "That's exactly what I thought—"

Aziraphale trailed his hand from Crowley's chin back up his jaw, and from there, a swift arc beneath his ear and into Crowley's soft, black, slightly ruffled hair.

"My dear, stop talking."

Crowley laughed, almost giddy, but before he could say something else, Aziraphale closed his eyes and decided to go in for something a bit more serious. He'd seen quite a few humans employ this particular solution, and, as messy as it looked, it was, in practice, shockingly effective. He tasted cocoa on Crowley's tongue, though what he tasted under it was a moan that escaped Crowley's lips when they broke for breath.

Aziraphale realized that he had both hands tangled in Crowley's hair, and that both Crowley's hands had somehow found their way into his rumpled waistcoat.

"This is inconvenient," Crowley muttered, untangling his hands. "Sorry, I—"

Aziraphale loosened one of his hands and took hold of Crowley's shoulder instead, shifting his weight, pressing Crowley as closely into the corner of the sofa as he could.

"This isn't," he said, reassuringly, and kissed Crowley again as the sofa shifted and tilted and suddenly became something else entirely. Aziraphale opened his eyes, blinking unsteadily. Crowley was lying on his back, dazed, and Aziraphale was more or less lying over him. Crowley's bedroom was dark, but the window was open, and the curtains stirred gently with the breeze from outside. Aziraphale shivered.

"That," Crowley croaked, his eyes sliding half closed, "was."

Aziraphale settled closer, stroking Crowley's hair against the duvet.

"Was?" 

Crowley gave him a hazy, mildly annoyed look.

"If you're going to ravish me, now is when you do it."

Aziraphale succumbed to the kind of blush that went the whole way down his collar.

"Well, I'm not sure that was exactly—er. Yes. Er, that would be right." Mortified, he kissed Crowley again, making sure it was as slow and careful as the last one. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm as if to make sure he wouldn't pull away. Another of those soft moans, more tasted than heard, and Aziraphale was sure he was out of his depth.

"Crowley," he panted, "I—I don't—

"Are you daft? I don't either," Crowley said, breathlessly, one hand restless against Aziraphale's cheek and the other clenching his arm in a vise grip. "I don't _care_."

"All right, then," said Aziraphale, and started on Crowley's shirt buttons, because there was a certain point at which you had to realize you were being an idiot. And _stop_.

For the first few minutes, Crowley just lay there watching him, still faint and, somewhere under that, fascinated. He touched the backs of Aziraphale's hands every now and again, as if he were a blind man following their progress. Aziraphale remembered a time when Crowley had played blind. It had been the only way.

Crowley's shirt was open. He was staring at a pale, smooth chest, and suddenly felt mortified that he'd even have to think about exposing that part of himself. Hoping his thoughts weren't the only thing in his eyes, Aziraphale ran his fingers over Crowley's skin and looked back at him as steadily as he could.

Crowley closed his eyes, peacefully, and sighed.

Something about the fading of that feverish light gave Aziraphale courage, or perhaps it just reassured him that Crowley wasn't laughing at him. To close your eyes when someone was touching you, well, Aziraphale had always imagined (as humans had always imagined) that it implied a certain level of trust. If they didn't trust each other by now, then they had problems. He tasted Crowley's throat.

It rose and fell, sharply, one nervous swallow.

"My dear," Aziraphale whispered, the tightness fading from his stomach, " _relax_."

Crowley did, just long enough for Aziraphale to fumble with his clothing and get to the point where he was undressed enough to consider undressing Crowley the rest of the way without any undue difficulty. He tried not to think about the fact that his shirt was loose, or that he'd stripped down to his pants and Crowley could probably see that through the lazy slits of his eyes. He'd taken all of Crowley's nerves for himself.

"There," said Aziraphale, more to reassure himself, and set his hands back against Crowley's chest for a moment. He was warm, so _unbelievably_ warm.

"Sssnice," Crowley whispered, opening his eyes, which were very impatient now.

"It is," agreed Aziraphale, softly, and kissed him again. If he could undo Crowley's trousers while they were kissing, he was sure that would solve a lot of problems. The alternative was that it could create more, and it did, because he'd no sooner got the button loose than the zipper decided to stick and he had to force it with his thumb. Crowley laughed, an unexpected bounce of his stomach against Aziraphale's hand. And, after that, warmth. Silk, fabric Aziraphale didn't usually bother with. Soft skin, more warmth. He felt Crowley tense under him, another moan caught in his throat.

Aziraphale didn't know if it was hesitation, or cowardice, or something similarly unpleasant, but what he did next was gather Crowley close and furtively wish away the silk, or whatever it was, and the cotton he wore himself, and rocked him into a gentle tangle of arms and legs and pushed-back shirts that didn't matter, because it was good enough at the moment—and so far _beyond_ that he couldn't say.

"Yes," Crowley was whispering, twisting against him, one lithe movement and they were touching from mouth to belly to thigh, and simply, " _Yesss_."

Lacking words, Aziraphale nuzzled Crowley's cheek in agreement, and the last things to cross his sight were the flash of Crowley's yellow eyes and the curtains' flutter.

* * *

It was one of the more interesting states of undress Crowley had awakened in.

Without opening his eyes, he could tell that his shirt was unbuttoned and he had one sleeve on, one sleeve off. He didn't seem to be wearing anything else, unless he had on socks, and a quick toe-wiggle told him that he did. Awkwardly, he braced his ankle against Aziraphale's calf and squirmed his foot out of it. Aziraphale shifted in his sleep, tightening his arm—also sleeved—around Crowley's waist. As far as he could tell, Aziraphale's shirt was more on than his was, one or two buttons still done and tangled somewhere about his middle. Crowley got the sock off, breathing a sigh.

He remembered the night before in full, breathtaking detail. 

He'd been very difficult, probably, but he'd been too nervous to be anything else, and he hated himself for that as much as for anything else. Carefully, Crowley felt out the shirt buttons along Aziraphale's waist and worked them free, untangling the damp fabric and pushing it back so that they touched, skin to skin, without any interruption. He closed his eyes and shivered. He was hard again, aching. Crowley hadn't known what Aziraphale had intended, and the angel probably hadn't known, either. By the end, he'd been a blushing, shocked wreck, and unspeakably content.

Aziraphale stirred in his sleep again, betraying his wakefulness with the ghost of a kiss pressed to Crowley's shoulder. There was apology in it, and something like concern. He fanned his hand slowly along Crowley's hip, dreaming—or _coaxing_.

Crowley buried his nose under Aziraphale's ear, moving sleepily. If Aziraphale wanted this as much as he had, well, that made it a bit less embarrassing. In fact, it made it a lot less embarrassing, and pressed the kiss back against Aziraphale's neck. _Yes_.

The breeze through the window wasn't as cold as it had been the night before, but that wasn't what had awakened Crowley. There was something of a racket at the windowsill, but he'd been able to shove it to the background, because lying more or less naked with one's lover was more important than one insistently cheerful bird.

Unlike a pigeon, a nightingale could at least _sing_.

* * * *

The heron and the stork had a lot to talk about. In addition to the recent decrease in world tension, there had also been a significant decrease in cosmic tension, and they both agreed that the spring's hatchlings would likely be a brighter bunch than those in springs past. Failing that, they would at least be brighter than human hatchlings.

Meanwhile, the birds of Majorca were discussing similar phenomena, though they were having a difficult time remembering exactly what it was that they were talking about. 

All that they could seem to agree on was that the tourists' bread was stellar.

The ducks of St. James's Park declared a park-wide holiday. The pelicans, being pelicans, kept to themselves, but they couldn't deny, even uttering under their bills, that the day had quite a festive air. The swans, being on generally better terms with everybody, suggested that they ought to hold a conference on chocolate and determine if there were other, more delectable sorts to be had. 

One of them had kept a piece for analysis.

When asked why all the celebration by a pair of visiting jackdaws, the ducks just smiled and asked if they'd care to join in begging. The jackdaws rolled their eyes, but they perched on the railing and cawed at passing children, who looked frightened.

If anyone wondered where the nightingale was, they didn't think it polite to ask. She'd been busy, and accurate in her reports, and was probably going to make a stop off to see their elderly pigeon uncles once she'd finished checking up on other business.

She was a good-hearted creature, even if a bit off-pitch.


End file.
